


Competition: Anders vs. Fenris

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Series: Treats [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aftercare, Again, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anders gets introspective, Anders' grease spell, Anger, Argument Resolution, Begging, Bets & Wagers, Blow Jobs, Bodhan Feddic cameo, Body Worship, Bondage, Come as Lube, Commands, Consensual tickling, Denial of Feelings, Dom!Hawke, Dom/sub, Emotion Control, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Fenris acts on inspiration, Fenris is not a morning person, Flashbacks, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Headspace, How is that not a tag yet?, Humiliation kink, Humor, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Isabela cameo, Justice Cameo, M/M, Morning After, Multi, Nipple Play, Non-Verbal, Non-sexual Tickling, Objectification, Orgasm Control, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Position Kink, Possessive Behavior, Post-Coital Cuddling, Posture Kink, Praise Kink, Relationship Confusion, Riding Crops, Sensitive Tattoos, Situational Humiliation, Smut, Spanking, Sub Competition, Sub!Anders, Subspace, Tears, Voyeurism, all sorts of assholes in this fic, assholes being assholes, bratty sub, eager sub, guh these two, in a good way, light Consent Play, maybe they're good for each other after all, multiple subs, neck kink, not sexy cameos sorry, really good olives, respecting limits, sub training, sub!fenris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-13
Packaged: 2019-01-15 09:30:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12318324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: Hawke doesn't know why his boyfriends are arguing, but his rough, boring night just got pleasantly interesting.





	1. Appetizer

**Author's Note:**

> They're at it again. Fenris and Anders may seem out of character unless you start from the first Treat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bodhan takes a deep breath as the front door opens. Paragons, he doesn’t know how to explain this to his boss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an appetizer. No sex yet. I plan to update daily, seven chapters and around 10,000 words total.   
> Huge thank-you to Rosehip and WhattheButlerSaw for the beta! You are both amazing!

Bodhan takes a deep breath as the front door opens. Paragons, he doesn’t know how to explain this to his boss.

“Take care, guys! Be safe!” Hawke calls, closing the door.

“Welcome home, Messere. A situation requires your attention.”

“Thank you, Bodhan,” says Hawke, striding through the main hall. “We cleaned out the Bloodragers’ headquarters tonight. I’ll read it after I wash up.” Hawke waves a hand at the desk. “…or maybe tomorrow,” he admits tiredly. He’s spattered in blood, though healed. _He’ll need elfroot potions soon_.  

Bodhan glances at the balcony outside Hawke’s bedroom. “Apologies, Messere. It’s not a letter.”

Hawke advances on Bodhan. He has Messere Hawke’s attention, which many in Kirkwall consider… unfavorable.

“Right,” Bodhan says. “Your good friends have arrived.”

Hawke’s eyebrows rise. “Good friends?”

“Serahs Anders and Fenris.” _Not my business, not my business…_ but Hawke destroys Bodhan’s mantra, given the chance.

“Boyfriends, Bodhan. They’re my boyfriends. I’m gay and very taken, which I’d rather Kirkwall learn than keep throwing bachelorettes at me.” Hawke rubs his forehead, smearing blood around. “Have you smelled smoke?”

Bodhan blinks. “No?”

“Good. Have they been yelling?”

Bodhan blushes. “No, Messere.”

“Interesting,” Hawke says. “What’s the problem?”

“I couldn’t say, Messere. Something was… off. They never come here together without you.”

“Nor anywhere else, I’d wager,” Hawke mutters.

“Now that you mention yelling, perhaps they were angry, but they hardly spoke. Fenris requested a bath, but Anders didn’t indulge.” Bodhan glances at the blood on his boss’s skin and armor. _They deserve better than for Hawke to… meet with them while filthy._ “They met in the parlor, taking light refreshment, and went to your room.”

“How long have they been upstairs?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes perhaps?”

“How sure are you?”

“I didn’t set an hourglass, but I’m reasonably certain, Messere.”

“A quarter hour,” Hawke mutters to himself. “Bodhan, help me with my armor and have Orana bring my dinner to the bath. Make the bath hot if you please.”

“Of course, Messere.” Bodhan is back in known territory: Hawke regularly arrives hungry and spattered in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve written this whole fic, but it needs a final polish. I should manage to post at least one chapter every day. Foreplay starts Chapter 4, sex is Chapter 5.


	2. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke makes a pleasant discovery. Oh, he's going to have fun with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank-you yet again to Rosehip and WhattheButlerSaw for the beta! I credit you each with strengthening this work with your insight! (As always, flaws and problems are my responsibility, not theirs.)

Hawke glances in the parlor while Bodhan draws the bath, relying heavily on the ancient wonder called ‘plumbing.’ Both sets of armor are there, but a sheet of Hawke stationary on the table captures his attention. Anders’ neat runes declare, ‘I will give you the favor I mentioned if Hawke approves,’ above Fenris’ scrawled ‘ditto’ and signatures of both Anders and Fenris. Hawke’s got the idea, but he climbs the stairs to his bedroom.

What he sees steals his breath.

Fenris and Anders are naked on the bed, but they aren’t touching or moving. Both are facing the headboard. They’re kneeling on opposite sides of the bed, soles of their pointed feet on display, pressed under their bare asses. Their backs are curved, heads down, wrist caught in hand behind each back. Anders’ short reddish-blonde ponytail is at an odd angle. Fenris’ lyrium tattoos swirl across his skin.

Hawke enters the room on bare feet, closing the door quietly. “I will ask questions,” he says. “Either honestly answer with ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ or stay silent. Anders, Fenris, do you understand?”

“Yes,” they chorus. Neither hesitates, neither answers with the soft drawl of good headspace. Both are wound tight, so they haven’t been playing. Plenty of steam to blow off.

“Anders, did you pose simultaneously?”

“Yes,” he answers evenly.

“Fenris, have you or Anders moved since then?”

“No,” he matches Anders’ tone.

“Anders, have either of you spoken in this pose… except to answer my questions?”

“No.”

“Fenris, did you wager sexual favors?”

“Yes.”

“Anders, does your bet work if I give commands?”

“Yes.” Anders’ voice betrays eagerness.

Hawke considers then adds, “Anders, do you want your collar?”

Interesting pause. “No.” No collar could be a wager condition, or Anders hadn’t decided. Either suits Hawke.

“Anders, are you angry with Fenris?”

Another pause. “Yes,” he bites out. He takes a breath but remains quiet.

“Fenris, are you angry with Anders?”

“Yes,” Fenris snaps without pause.

“You’ve offered me an attractive problem,” Hawke says. “I need to bathe and plan a solution. Stay still and silent. If you cannot do that, leave for the night. The other may stay and renegotiate with me.” Hawke grabs his noble costume from a cabinet and heads for the bath, whistling.


	3. Hawke’s Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke dreams up workable solutions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Rosehip and WhattheButlerSaw for being my beta readers on this fic! 
> 
> Hey, two chapters up in one day! This one's really short, though, not sure it counts. 
> 
> Theodosians might not use the term ‘subspace,’ but I could be convinced otherwise. I’ve used ‘headspace’ for this fic.

Heat from the bath soaks to Hawke’s bones as he munches on a roast boar sandwich with a thick, sweet, Ferelden-style sauce. If it were Anders in this bath, he’d be pink.

What to do? He needs to divert their anger with something engrossing. Once they’re calm, Hawke can introduce good headspace: nothing but free bodies and pleasure. Let them talk after they’ve been fucked breathless.

Hawke takes another breath of steam. If he uses position training, he can distract them from their anger as long as it takes. Next, give them time to show off. Finally, they each have their most-effective kinks for good headspace; he might as well use those.

_They’ve never seen each other’s best kinks._ A chain of what one boyfriend will think of the other’s kink plays through Hawke’s mind: how might Anders react to Fenris’ response to Anders in rope? Not well, and no one but Hawke to blame. Better to pause the scene early and ask. Anders can use self-bondage without triggering Fenris. If Hawke puts Anders in his headspace first, he will accept Fenris’ method easily. Then a kneeling pose will give him access, control of their orgasms…

Maker’s Fucking mercy. If he does this right, his angry boyfriends will fuck eagerly. Hawke smiles.


	4. Elaborate Foreplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke calms his angry boyfriends and cranks up the heat.

Hawke strides into the room, closing the door behind him. “Stand and stretch,” he says in a hard tone.

Anders and Fenris creakily stand and move to the end of the bed, facing Hawke. Anders interlaces his fingers and flips his palms to the ceiling. Fenris huffs and mimics him, tilting back. Anders tilts back, and soon they look like bows, both at about the same curve.

“Don’t hurt yourselves,” Hawke says, half amused and half concerned.

Anders straightens, smirking, and drops his hands to the floor, legs straight, ass in the air. Fenris rolls his eyes and bends forward just as far. Hawke sits at the foot of the bed and spanks both bare asses with a twin ‘smack!’ Anders jumps and wavers on his feet, but Fenris smirks at him, upside down, before sliding to the rug. He sets a foot against a knee and bends to grab the arch of the further foot. Anders sees Fenris and sits into his own hurdle stretch.

They keep trying to outdo each other. Fenris bows and bends with intention. Anders flops into stretches like a rag doll, with rare limitations he eases from legs and arms, shoulders and fingers, equal in range to Fenris.

When they seem loose, Hawke says, “Catch,” and tosses each a waterskin. “Sips, not gulps. Ketojan: I need a detailed check-in.” They’re sitting on the floor, so Hawke slides to the rug. They moved further from the bed as they stretched, so there’s plenty of room.

“Hawke!” Anders objects.

He shrugs. “I can’t focus when you’re naked _and_ on unequal footing. This is faster than trousers.” Hawke grins. “Seething anger isn’t”—

“No negotiation,” Fenris says. “You’re in charge. Do what you want.”

That’s… so wrong, but discussing it would stir up their argument. “Fine. The scene is on for you. ‘What I want’ is for you to negotiate with absolute honesty. Can you follow _those_ orders?”

Fenris’ face cycles through surprise, defiance, and respect, and then he stares at the floor, away from Hawke’s challenge and Anders’ smirk. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” Hawke snaps. He takes a breath. _Patience._ “You want me to pit you against each other, and I trust you’ll give me details I need. In exchange, tell me your limits compared to usual.”

“No limits.”

“Fenris, that’s not possible,” Hawke says.

“Hawke”—

“So if I bind you,” Hawke says sarcastically, “you’d be fine.”

“Yes,” Fenris bites out. “Magic, too.”

“Okay,” Hawke says, “that’s surprising. Suppose I order you to teach Anders to use your tattoos?”

Fenris flinches. “You’re not into that.”

“I’m also not a fucking mind reader,” Hawke retorts. “I need to know what’s good and what will send you screaming to Sundermount.”

Fenris looks at the floor, tilting his head alluringly. “Pleasing you makes it good.”

That kicks Hawke in the libido… and sets off alarms. It’s hard to see what’s wrong through the deeply satisfying idea of taming his wild ‘little wolf.’ _Frick, no, what am I thinking?_

“Your flattery has improved over the years, dear heart,” he says to set it aside. And holy shit he needs to figure out where that came from.

Fenris smirks at the floor. “I’m glad you approve.”

“Please me then: explain why it’s okay to bind you when you flinch to see rope.”

Fenris forgets himself, looking at Hawke with his jaw hanging. _That’s_ better. Then his gaze drops again.

“No you don’t,” Hawke says. “We’re not playing yet. Get those eyes back up here. It’s a challenge. _Answer_ it.”

Fenris huffs and locks gazes with Hawke. “You seem to think I’m willing because I’m angry, but I want to push myself tonight.” He looks beyond Hawke before focusing again. “Hawke, I don’t understand what I’m feeling, but I _need_ a challenge beyond our usual.”

“Feeling anger, maybe?” Hawke says.

“Well…” Fenris’ gaze flicks to the floor with a smirk. “…maybe a little.”

“This challenge: Push or punish?” Hawke says.

Fenris huffs a laugh. “Push.”

Hawke breathes easier and smiles. “I’ll put rope and magic on the table, if you promise to safeword as needed.”

Fenris takes a deep breath. “Hawke, I’m sick of having triggers left by a dead magister, but this stupid bet is nothing if they get tripped. I promise to safeword before running.”

Hawke sprawls forward on one hand to kiss him on the forehead. “Deal,” Hawke says. Fenris has a soft smirk as Hawke sits back. He’s very naked. _Focus, keep it together._

“Anders, any limit changes?” _Shit, he’s naked, too._

“Not me. I don’t know what he’s trying to prove,” Anders says with a dismissive flick of his hand, seething under a civil veneer. Fenris’ anger returns in full force: His face pinches together, and his mouth opens. “I know how this works,” Anders continues, not letting Fenris speak, “and I _will_ safeword.” Anders’ body language says _fuck you_ without hand gestures.

“Okay!” Hawke says, clapping to distract them both. “Usual limits, except rope and magic are good to go. Anything else I need to know?”

“Your boyfriend is an asshole,” Anders says charmingly.

“ _One_ of them is,” Fenris rejoins, fingers flexing.

Hawke rolls his eyes. “ _Both_ of my boyfriends can be assholes. Fortunately, I put assholes to good use.” That gets their eyes back on him, and Anders even hisses in a breath. Hawke grins. “I have a few surprises, stuff you’ve both recently been interested in or we’ve tried, but never together.” Hawke waves to mean all-three together. “Is there anything you’d regret in the morning? I can spoil the surprise if you need me to.” Hawke is tempted to spoil it anyway, but thinking about it will distract them.

Fenris gives a long-suffering sigh, but then his brow furrows as he drops into serious thought. Anders’ eyes are flicking about as he recalls their conversations, and his tiny smile gets bigger and bigger. They’re both frikkin adorable.

“Nothing I can think of, Hawke,” Fenris says.

Anders smiles. “You know I love surprises.”

Hawke smiles back. “Safewords, if there’s nothing else.”

“Jester,” says Fenris.

Anders nods. “Wiggums.”

“Ketojan,” Hawke says, and stands, his bare feet sinking into the thick rug.

Fenris’ gaze falls to the carpet again, but there’s a glint in his eye. Anders gazes adoringly at Hawke, an expression he sometimes uses to get into a scene.

“Tonight, I will train you to follow two handy pose commands: Kneel and Present.” He says it pree-ZENT. “If you are very good, you may learn the Hold command. You are ‘resting’ now, not in an established pose. When I say ‘Kneel,’ kneel like you were when I arrived, but hands on your thighs, both facing that wall.” Hawke points at the door. “Kneel.”

Hawke retrieves the new riding crop from his toy cabinet. It’s about the length of his forearm, with a floppy loop of thick leather at the end.

“Pathetic,” he says when he turns back to examine the pose, “but it’s more fun to earn perfection. Do not speak unless spoken to during training. Address me as ‘ser.’ Do you understand?”

“Yes, ser,” they answer. Fenris says it quietly, meekly, and Anders drawls the words. _This won’t do._

“Put more snap into your responses. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ser!” they say enthusiastically.

“Your Kneel is terrible,” Hawke says, idly admiring their asses as he paces, choosing his corrections. “Turn your hands so fingertips graze inner thighs.” He has no desire to hit hands, but he snaps the crop at Fenris’ arm just above the elbow. Fenris jumps at the sting. “Elbows out.” Fenris quickly improves. Anders has corrected his arms, but he’s sitting too straight. Hawke taps the crop low on his back, making a faint pink mark. “This is your chance to be subservient,” he says, trailing the patch of leather up Anders’ body, tapping gently to bend him. Hawke uses pressure to tilt his head. “Drop your chin. Look at the floor, not me.”

Hawke corrects one thing at a time, instructing with word and crop. Pretty soon, Fenris seems to remember that Hawke likes a challenge. He follows the last instruction given… but changes other things. Right now his feet are perfect, but his back is bent too far. He’s doing it on purpose, too, judging from his smirk.

In contrast, Anders anticipates what Hawke wants and holds himself far too tight, almost vibrating with his desire to please. Hawke’s enjoying it, but he needs to check both behaviors before they go too far.

Anders first.

Hawke bends to wrap a hand around the back of Anders’ neck, resting the tips of his thumb and middle finger on the vee of muscle at the front. “Anders, you’re frikkin perfect,” Hawke murmurs. “Makes me want to keep you here always. What lovely art you would make.” Hawke kisses his neck above his hand. Anders hums, and his eagerness settles. “I’ll be back, love, I need to work with Fenris.” Anders smirks. Facial expressions need improvement, but Hawke’s picking his battles.

Hawke strides over to Fenris, whose chin has dropped even further. He grabs Fenris’ hair at the back of the head and tugs. Fenris presses into his hand, straightening higher than Hawke needs. Hawke can feel him moan but can’t hear it.

“The position is Kneel, Fenris,” Hawke growls in his ear, tugging his white hair. Fenris stiffens, then drops to the proper curve. Hawke uses his hair to position his head, then tightens his grip until Fenris hisses a breath. “Stop fighting me, Fenris. This is why you’re here. Stop second-guessing everything with that pretty head of yours.” Hawke eases his grip as Fenris settles under his hand. When he steps back, Fenris’ position is as good as Anders’. “Perfect,” Hawke says. Fenris sneers. “Yes, I know you hate hyperbole, you little shit. Give me poetic license.”

“Sorry, ser,” Fenris says, and seems to mean it.

Hawke smiles. “It’s okay. I’ll make you pay later.”

Fenris shivers, suppressing a smile. _More hair-pulling tonight,_ Hawke thinks.

Hawke continues instruction until each has several pink marks scattered over their skin. He suppresses the urge to leave welts on the arches of their feet for no other reason than they would look good, making a mental note to check the effects on his own feet. Actually, their posture satisfies Hawke more than the marks, every line of them expressing submission.

“Better. Not perfect yet, but I’m pleased. Time for the next command.” Hawke waits for a count of two.

“Present,” Hawke says. “On your hands and knees, feet flexed, eyes on the floor.”

They release Kneel and fall into Present. _Definitely need work on graceful transitions._

They intuit the purpose of this pose, their hands and knees well positioned at shoulder-width. Hawke concentrates instead on getting the arches of their lower backs into obscenely tight curves and the rest of their backs tabletop-flat. He presses with his crop, only snapping it to speed understanding, but they both gain welts on their chest, back, and ass before he’s satisfied. He’s fucking tempted to use gags for this pose, but that might get distracting: the red fabric tracing to their wet mouths, the looks in their eyes when he gives them enough to want more. Hawke shakes his head to clear it.

“Rest,” Hawke says. “No pose.” He hands each his waterskin. “You’re doing well. Drink sips of water. Stretch. Are you going to skimp on water or stretching?”

“Not me, ser,” Anders says at the same time Fenris says, “I won’t, ser.”

Hawke huffs a laugh. “Well, that’s both of you, which is all that matters.”

While they take sips of water, Fenris pointedly avoids looking at Anders, who shoots him occassional glares.

Fenris sets his waterskin on the floor to stand and stretch above his head. Anders follows suit, rolling his eyes, and they go through the same stretches, failing to one-up each other again. Anders takes sips of water between stretches, and soon Fenris does the same.

Hawke admires their bodies in various positions and their muscle rippling under welted skin. He’d hit this crop against his boots in the store and tried it at home on his own. Crop marks sting when stretched but fade within a day.

As they finish their last stretch, Hawke says, “Present,” and they begin again.

Now Hawke switches between the poses, making small adjustments and reminders along the way. He gets their faces impassive in Kneel, but it’s not worth the effort for Present: when he wants that position, he’ll want reactions.

Next, he snaps crisp commands and corrections, keeping his men moving, ending with a dozen quick switches between the poses.

Both are breathing heavily when Hawke pauses in Present. “That was hard, I know, but with practice you will obey automatically. You did beautifully. Rest. Sip water and stretch.” They recover their breath and retrieve their water skins.

“You have earned the variation for Kneel. When I say ‘Hold,’ grab your left wrist in your right hand above your head.” They’ve barely started their stretches, but circulation is not an issue after moving so much. “Kneel,” he says. They scramble into position, Anders shoving the cork into his waterskin before he tosses it carelessly aside. “Anders, who raised you?” Hawke says, pointing.

“Assholes, ser,” he says.

_Whoops. Politics in the bedroom._ “Quite the cheek, naked man,” Hawke says.

“Thank you, ser,” Anders replies, but he picks up the waterskin, sets it gently out of the way, and returns to Kneel. Hawke welts him on the butt, in the same place he’d made the mark for Fenris last time they played. _Fenris is not them,_ Hawke wills Anders to understand. He’s surprised when Anders’ smile turns sad.

“Hold,” he says to distract Anders so Hawke can think. Anders and Fenris raise their arms as he’d described. Should he trust that their contest will peel back their argument? Or is his job to call, cards on the table? But he’s not coming to solutions, and both men in his care are getting nervous in the pause. He chooses trust, hoping he’s not breaking theirs.

Hawke perfects the height of their arms and moves to other corrections. The strict poses hide Anders’ eagerness except when he anticipates commands.

“Kneel,” Hawke says, and Anders’ arms twitch up before settling on his thighs. Hawke tucks the crop in his belt and drops to a knee in front of Anders, wrapping his hand around his neck again. “Anders, stop.” He jumps, and Hawke pulls his ponytail out and runs his fingers through his hair to soothe him. “You’re being so good for me. Don’t ruin it by pretending you can guess what I want,” Hawke says. “Take my commands, nothing more.”

“Yes, ser,” Anders says contritely.

“That’s my good pet,” Hawke says, lifting his chin to kiss him on the forehead, then returning it to the perfect position and tucking his hair behind his ears.

They work until Anders is relaxed and Fenris might be halfway into a good headspace, accepting improvements without hesitation.

Hawke runs them through the poses without corrections, ending with Kneel.

“Excellent,” Hawke says as he undresses efficiently, folding his clothes and setting them on the desk with the riding crop. “Next, I’ll give you creative leeway. You may show your appreciation for my body.” He pulls a chair over to the carpet and sits. “Kneel here,” he says. Hawke indicates places on either side of the chair, and they settle into position. “Start with my feet.”

Anders and Fenris begin and oh _fuck_ this is among his better ideas. Anders crouches to press small, reverent kisses to the arch of Hawke’s foot, and Fenris licks the top of his other foot in long strokes, moaning with pleasure. They move to his calves: lips and tongues and occasional teeth. Anders takes his time, but Fenris continues up his leg, nipping lightly.

“Not my cock,” Hawke says, although he’s hard.

Fenris grins mischievously and quickly, gently teases his balls. Hawke’s breath hisses, but he doesn’t buck. He slaps at Fenris’ arm.

“My _entire_ crotch region is off-limits,” Hawke clarifies, keeping his voice stern. Maker’s mercy, why does Domming test _his_ self-control? Yet, playful is far better on Fenris. Hawke remembers his brain-slip into ‘little wolf.’ He can’t accept absolute obedience from Fenris and be okay in the morning. “Fenris, you may only touch above my hips.”

Fenris’ disappointment over the new limitation is funny until he sucks Hawke’s fingers into his mouth, one at a time. Anders isn’t fucking helping: he slips between Hawke’s knees on the floor, kissing and licking Hawke’s inner thighs, hands caressing and breath ragged.

Hawke stops memorizing every motion to keep his own head from spinning and do his job. He watches and wallows in their affection. Anders looks up from kissing his calves as if to say, ‘Am I doing it right?’ and Hawke smiles indulgently. Then Fenris stands and crouches to tease a nipple with lips and tongue. Anders scrambles to claim the other. Holy _fucking_ shit why haven’t they done this before? Their wet lips are unraveling his self-control. Hawke has never cum just from nipples, but he might have to stop them tonight. Anders grips his arm and hip, and Hawke pulls him close. Fenris’ hands roam over skin: stomach, arm, and back. Hawke touches Fenris his favorite way because Hawke can’t read body language for shit right now.

Hawke rides the pleasure as long as he dares, then nudges them off, saying, “Bed. Now.”

Maker’s sacred voice kink, their grins match as they retreat.

“Anders at the head of the bed, Fenris at the foot,” Hawke directs. He takes a silent, deep breath. Being fucked silly isn’t what they need. Yet.

They sit facing each other, silent while Hawke fetches the rope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the chapter cut. It was getting long and the story calls for a POV switch here. One more day, beloved readers, and the full smut will be up. 
> 
> I had some really boring ideas for this competition. (Hawke and I were both worried about the potential damage if we just said, ‘now kiss,’ with how angry these two were.) [Universal Truths by Lanna Michaels](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1023686) provided the training idea, which gets Hawke riled up while calming the feuding ~~brats~~ boyfriends. It’s not my fandom, but the [Permits Tu series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/38510) is a prime example of a beautiful, loving BDSM romance heavy on the smut. 
> 
> I borrowed Hawke’s Kneel pose from Zevran in [Off Label by Dragonflies and Katydids](http://archiveofourown.org/series/324674). Her lush BDSM series is also respectful of consent, plus has another imperfect-but-moral Dom. <3
> 
> Speaking of, maybe Hawke shouldn’t have put Fenris back into the scene during negotiation, but it was a Hawke-ish mistake. Fenris was briefly confused but didn’t have trouble speaking his mind with Hawke pushing so hard for input.


	5. Pushing Edges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke establishes subspace and takes ~~advantage~~ care of Anders and Fenris. They address the remaining sexy tags this chapter, plus some repeats.

Fenris twitches at the neat coil of red rope. _It’s Hawke,_ he reminds himself.

“Kneel,” Hawke says, tossing the rope on the bed next to Anders. “Fenris, watch.” Fenris Kneels facing Anders.

Hawke ties Anders’ arms behind his back. It’s not a style Danarius used. The Magister loved to bind wrists or ankles tight and brutal, but Hawke has Anders hold his own forearms behind his back to bind them together.

“Fenris, look at him,” Hawke says.

He _is_ —oh! Fenris is staring at the sheets, aware of every movement. Now he notices details: The gentleness of Hawke’s hands as he checks the rope. Anders’ unfocused eyes and half-smile. Damn Hawke, Fenris is _relieved_.

Hawke kneels behind Anders, wraps his arms around him. Anders leans into him, eyes sharp now on Fenris, taunting. Fenris knows Anders’ message: _I have him and you don’t._ Ridiculous. If half of Thedas and a dozen lovers separated them, Fenris is Hawke’s and vice versa.

“Struggle for me,” Hawke says.

Anders’ eyes go wide, then he smiles, gaze sliding from Fenris and attention on Hawke. He pulls, shoves his ass back into Hawke, twists side to side. Hawke holds him close, watching Fenris. Anders tries harder. His expression becomes worried. He whimpers, says, “No! I can’t get loose!”

Fenris isn’t expecting his reaction: he thought he was ready for this. _What will this become._ Panic sets his heart beating faster. _Jester._ But Fenris saw that smile. He knows Anders has a safeword. Fenris focuses on that. He imagines ‘Wiggums’ as a pair of scissors to sever the rope. He remembers the blunt-tipped scissors under the mattress Hawke once showed him.

Part of him screams, how could Hawke do this to _me_? But he’d asked Hawke to push his limits, said rope was okay. Hawke must have guessed he wouldn’t handle it well since he has no rope for Fenris.

Hawke winks at Fenris. He’s watching them: Anders with his hands and body, Fenris with his eyes. Fenris has his own scissors. _Jester._

Fenris’ shoulders ease. He breathes and gives Hawke a tiny nod. Hawke grins and slides a hand up Anders’ chest to his nipple. He pinches, twisting.

“Ahhhh!” Anders arches back against Hawke, forgetting to struggle. Fenris is proud of pushing himself. _A little more free._

“That’s good,” Hawke says, caressing the nipple and pulling Anders’ ass tight against him with his other arm. Anders melts, moaning. “Once more.” Anders’ breath hitches just before Hawke pinches his nipple again. The sound becomes a hiss, then a moan. Fenris hungers for Hawke’s touch but has to wait. His impatience and anger tangle with how _good_ they look together as Hawke rubs Anders’ chest. Anders forms his body against Hawke, head lolling back to rest on his shoulder. Anders is water and Hawke is the glass, they fit together so close.

Hawke strokes Anders’ hard cock once, twice, and Anders shakes, eyes closed. He’s lost in Hawke’s hands.

“How do you feel?” Hawke says. Anders moans. “Good,” Hawke replies, moving to his side, ready to catch him. “That’s so good. You went down so easy.” Anders’ eyes open halfway, gaze unfocused. “Comfortable?” Anders nods, tilts his head pleadingly. Hawke smiles and sears him with a kiss. Anders becomes liquid again, and Hawke kisses his forehead to fix him in place. “I’ll let you drift in your headspace while I help Fenris with his. Does that sound nice?” Anders nods.

_Venhedis, what Hawke does to me, to him._ Hawke pins Fenris with a hungry look and comes over.

“I want to take you down that fast, Fenris,” Hawke murmurs. “You know what that involves.”

A stab of _want_ slices through Fenris’ gut. “Yes, ser,” he says.

“You sure?” Hawke says. “I can take my time.”

“Please, ser,” Fenris says. “I’m yours.” He’s rewarded with a hungry grin from Hawke.

“Get into position.” Hawke’s command roils lust in Fenris’ hips.

Fenris climbs off the bed, cheeks already heating. He settles with feet spread wide on the tiles, knees tight against the side of the bed, ass in the air. His chest and one cheek press against the cool sheets, hands stretched as far as he can reach, brown white-traced fingers splayed over the red-and-gold sheets.

Thoughts crowd his head. How must he look, spread over the bed for Hawke? What will Anders think? Will he mention it on Hawke’s missions? Gossip to his mage friends? ‘I know an elf who…’ He won’t, he won’t, but he _could_. Hawke Doms Fenris after he’s Dommed Anders, but tonight is different. He hasn’t proven himself against Anders, hasn’t marked him. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. He lets this shame feed into his lust, lets his trust in Hawke hold him in place. _Shouldn’t. Unproven. Rejected…_

Hawke’s touch makes him jump. Fenris belatedly registers Hawke taking something from his toy cabinet and returning to stand behind Fenris where he can watch Anders, too. Anticipation oozes through Fenris’ nerves. He could safeword before Anders sees.

He doesn’t. Hawke’s right, humiliation is the fastest way to headspace, and he wants that tonight. Hawke slides his nails, then the paddle, against Fenris’ ass and thighs. Fenris is tired of being angry at Anders. He wants the bliss Hawke can give him. With a jolt, he realizes he wants Anders to apologize for—what? Asking why Fenris came to the clinic? _It’s a free fucking clinic, why wouldn’t he be welcome—_

_Whack!_ Fenris’ thoughts scatter across the sheets when the paddle smacks his ass. Fenris is keenly aware of the bed, the tiles under his feet, the satin under his curling fingers. He looks up at the spark of interest in Anders’ blissful expression. Fenris can’t see Hawke, doesn’t know when—

_Whack!_ Fenris twitches again as pain-pleasure wracks his body. His hands twist the sheets. He presses his forehead against the mattress, letting his hair hide his face.

“No,” Hawke says, tugging his hair, soothing Fenris. _This is why you’re here._ “You know how this works.”

He knows, which doesn’t make it any easier. Fenris faces his shame in getting spanked, shame in enjoying it, lets Anders see it on his face.

_Whack!_ With this hit, his cheek slides against the sheet, and a buzz hums through his body, twining with the shame. He grits his teeth against a moan.

_“Coming here was a mistake.” Fenris squeezed the wound around the arrow’s shaft._

_“No, I’ll heal you! I’m only surprised, all right?”_

_Whack!_ Fenris twitches and gasps. He’d been holding his breath, avoiding his emotions, and now his anger surges through him again. Fenris lets himself be angry, clutching the sheets. He wants to crawl out of his own head.

_“I don’t understand you, Anders. Are you helping me or humoring your boyfriend’s boyfriend?”_

_Anders sighed. “Does it matter? Either way, I’m trying.”_

_Whack!_ He doesn’t understand Anders, but he’s safe with Hawke. He can be angry without having to justify it or decide what to do with it.

_“You don’t take orders well, do you?” Anders folded his arms. His bedside manner was terrible._

_“Not from you, I don’t.” But Fenris reclined onto the table._

_Whack!_ The anger falls away, and the hurt it leaves mingles with the pleasure-pain surging through his body. _What are you doing here?_ He’d thought their time with Hawke allowed shared time _without_ Hawke. It hurt to be wrong.

_“Good thing Hawke only wants to take control when it suits you,” Anders said. The arrow was out, the wound healing in a blue glow, but they were still arguing._

_“It suits you continuously, I suppose?”_

_Whack!_ Now Fenris moans as he jumps under the paddle. This is better/worse than the shame. His anger pins him raw like a specimen, skin ready to be peeled back for Hawke and Anders to see. He knows the shape of his pain, the source of his anger. He should name it, but that could hurt beyond Hawke’s abilities, and Fenris avoids it.

_“You trust Hawke’s word, right?”_

_Fenris narrowed his eyes, seeing the trap, and stepped into it. “I do.”_

_The wound in his ribs was whole again. Anders tossed the arrow remnant into the trash can. “Then trust this: you will never be his pet.”_

_Whack!_ It doesn’t matter. None of it matters, the pain the anger. Hawke is taking care of them, this aching bliss. The bed cradles him, holdes him perfectly for Hawke. He lets his pain play out.

_“I lay everything I am at his feet, every night I stay with him,” Anders said._

_“Bah! I could play his pet far better than you.”_

_Whack!_ Fenris doesn’t twitch, presses deeper into the mattress and moans, watching his memories like they happened to someone else.

_Fenris took the challenge in anger. “Hawke judging?”_

_“Nobody better,” Anders said cockily._

_Whack!_ “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,” Fenris whispers, shaking. “Please, yes.” He breaks free to other memories.

_Crouching outside the slaver lair. There are more than Fenris expected._ I might need healing after this. _The thought spurs Fenris into danger._

_Whack!_ His foolishness this afternoon scatters with the rest of his memories. “Thank you, yes, thank you,” Fenris moans and gasps into the sheets, arching. Hawke doesn’t make him look at Anders again.

_Sprawled over the bed, tangled in Hawke and Anders. He has_ purpose _standing over a slaver corpse, but he is_ content _here._

_Whack!_ Tears collect in Fenris’ eyes as the pleasure overtaking him becomes gratitude. They come to Hawke, and he _gives_ them this. “Thank you, thank you,” Fenris says, turning so Hawke can see his tears. “So good,” he says so Hawke knows why. “So good.”

_White noise of pleasure/pain. He’ll give Hawke anything he asks for._

_Whack!_ “I am yours,” Fenris says, shaking. “I am yours.”

The paddle clacks on the tiles, and Hawke climbs onto the bed next to him. He tangles his fingers in Fenris’ hair and tugs gently. It grounds him: he stops shaking but stays in his headspace.

“Damn right you are,” he growls in Fenris’ ear. _Ungh._ “Kneel on the bed,” he says and helps Fenris onto the mattress, then into Kneeling. “Enjoy your headspace while I take care of Anders.” Fenris nods, not sure Hawke sees it, lets it go.

Anders is still soft edges. Fenris watches Hawke kneel behind him, mumbling in his ear, sliding hands over Anders’ arms and the rope. Anders nods and leans into Hawke, and Hawke smiles his sweetest. _We’re both completely fucked,_ Fenris thinks.

“I will bring you each close to orgasm mutiple times, taking turns until I have mercy and let you cum. If you’re going to cum, you must tell me. If you orgasm without permission, you must ruin it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ser,” Fenris says at the same time as Anders, surprised by how easily the words form. They’d played with orgasm delay, talked about trying it for longer.

“You may watch each other, but you don’t have to.”

That bit of freedom will help him control himself. “Thank you, ser,” Fenris says.

Anders only moans. Hawke is holding him, nibbling and sucking where his ropey neck muscle becomes shoulder. Anders’ hard cock bobs with effort, Hawke holding him still.

Hawke mumbles in Anders’ ear, pressing his hands against his skin. Through his haze of pleasure, Fenris catches phrases: “good for me” and “fucking smooth skin” and “cum so hard.” Fenris drifts, engrossed in Hawke and Anders.

Hawke slides his hands along Anders’ arms to his hands, whispering in his ear. A tone of magic rings sharp against Fenris’ tattoos. Anders whimpers, a pleading sound. Hawke puts one greased hand against Anders’ stomach and slides a finger of the other into his ass.

“Maker, Hawke,” Anders gasps. Fenris can’t see what Hawke does, but Anders gasps and says, “Hawke, three, please.”

“You beg so prettily,” Hawke says, sliding his fingers lazily. “Close your eyes while I consider it.”

Hawke thrusts his fingers deeper, watching Fenris or examining Anders’ pleasure: the pulse in his neck, the strained bliss in his face, or the taste of his skin. Hawke twists his wrist to make Anders gasp and wobble. His other hand leaves a wet smear on Anders’ belly. Fenris tries not to move, tries not to rock in empathy.

Hawke works Anders until he’s squirming, whimpering. When Hawke wraps around Anders’ cock, he bucks. After a few strokes, he says, “Ahh! Hawke stop I’m going to”— and Hawke stops.

Hawke holds a hand out to Fenris once Anders pants through his first edge. “Get yourself ready,” Hawke says.

Fenris collects enough grease from his hand to do the job. It’s slippery and light, and it smells like Anders’ neck: sharp tang of sex and need. Fenris groans and reaches around to finger himself open for Hawke.

Hawke has Anders settled and cleans his hands. “Need gloves or something,” he mutters. He crowds next to Fenris on the bed, stroking light and cruel over Fenris’ tattoos. It stings, burns as pleasure.

“Hold,” Hawke breathes. Fenris untangles himself to whip his hands above his head. Hawke chuckles, then pulls Fenris higher on his knees to suck his cock into his mouth.

Fenris hisses and grunts. He’s not allowed to cum, but it’s difficult with Hawke’s mouth around his cock, leaking appreciative noises. “Kaffas,” he says as the pleasure spirals and his hips make aborted thrusts. He can’t stop. The pleasure layers, thickens. “Close, Hawke... Stop! Fuck! Ahngh!”

Hawke stops as Fenris’ tattoos flicker and darken. He grins as Fenris twitches, pleasure flowing through him. He calms himself with deep breaths and focus on the modified pose, frustration receding into bright arousal.

“Kneel,” Hawke says, and Fenris returns to the proper curve.

Hawke switches between them several more times, keeping them hard, ignoring his own erection, bringing one, then the other, close to orgasm again and again until Fenris can only think of sex, fucking, and ways to get off.

For instance, what Hawke’s doing to Anders now: one hand on his back, the other pumping fast and light on Anders’ cock. Fenris is too hazy with need to figure out how Anders isn’t cumming.

“Please, Hawke, let me cum, I’ve been good, please.” Fenris’ hips rock and his tattoos flicker again from the need in Anders’ begging.  

“Not yet,” Hawke says, and he takes his hands away.

Anders shakes, saying, “ah! ah!” but Hawke touches Anders’ neck and he stops shaking, settles, doesn’t cum.

“That was close, pet,” Hawke says, “but you were so good to tell me. I promise, it will be worth it. Soon, pet. Soon.”

“Hawke,” Fenris says, “ser, please, let this be the one. Let me cum, please.”

Hawke laughs. “I’ve decided you’ll cum after Anders,” he says.

Fenris shoves him away. “Take care of that, then. No, better,” Fenris pulls Hawke back mindlessly. “Please, ser, just fuck me. I need you. I’ll be so good for you.”

Hawke smiles and whispers in his ear, “One more.”

Fenris groans, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes. “No, please, ser, let me cum, please.”

“One. More,” is all Hawke says. Fenris’ tears fall as Hawke takes him in hand and Fenris leans in needily. He lets the pleasure build, wanting more and knowing it won’t go anywhere, but he only needs to endure it once more before he’s allowed release.

It startles him this time. “Hawke, stop, I’m going to cum, stop!” he says. Hawke’s hand disappears, and Fenris shrieks a frustrated moan as his orgasm recedes.

“Fuck that was good,” Hawke says, kissing Fenris’ hair as he shudders back from the edge. “You wanted it so badly, but you stopped for me.”

“Yes,” Fenris says, “fuck you, ser.”

Hawke hums, hopefully tempted to fuck him senseless. “No, fuck yourself,” Hawke says. “You may finger your ass, but no touching elsewhere.”

“Thank you, ser,” Fenris says, reaching around back. _Fuck me fuck me fuck me._

Hawke returns to Anders, who leans sideways, bracketed by Hawke’s strong arms, watching Fenris and moaning. Hawke takes his time, stroking Anders’ cock slow and easy while he strokes into Anders’ ass with three fingers. Anders’ moan is low, louder every time Hawke brings his hands together: deep in Anders’ ass and down his cock. “OoohOOOooohOOOoooh…”

Fenris scissors his fingers apart to stretch, hisses and moans as Anders watches him. Gradually, Hawke’s hands speed up, and Anders’ moans get desperate, and he struggles again in his ropes.

“I can’t, I can’t,” Anders cries. “Please, Hawke, please.”

“Cum for me,” Hawke rumbles, “cum hard.”

Kaffas, does he ever. Anders yells and arches back against Hawke’s arm, pulling fingers deeper and thrusting into Hawke’s fist. That fist slows, giving Anders space to feel his release. Fenris catches details: Anders’ balls tight against his body, the shape of each spurt of cum as it arcs out over Anders’ belly or Hawke’s fist, and the intensely satisfied wonder on Hawke’s face as he watches Anders cum.

Hawke smears Anders’ cum on his own cock. _Fuck me fuck me fuck me,_ Fenris thinks, trying for satisfaction from his fingers, no longer sure he can stop. Hawke cleans his hands, unties Anders, and carefully lays him next to Fenris. Fenris reaches for Anders with his free hand, a thumb against his lower lip, fingertips through the cum on his belly, mingling it with the handprint of grease. Anders squirms, and Fenris wonders if Anders knows where he is.

Hawke pulls Fenris’ fingers out of his ass, cleans the hand fast. He’s suddenly eager, demanding. He tugs Fenris’ other arm, and both Fenris and Anders moan objections. Hawke chuckles low and arranges Fenris above Anders, knees between his splayed legs.

“Present!” Hawke says. Fenris curves his low back, lowers his head, and looks straight at Anders below him. _Fuck._

“Ngh, ah!” Fenris gasps as Hawke slides into him.

“You like that? Anders’ cum deep inside you on my cock?” Hawke’s voice is thick with lust.

Yes he fucking likes it but he can’t _breathe_ quivering with Hawke’s hips pressed against his ass and Anders strung out on his afterglow beneath him. Fenris’ cock hovers above the smeared mess on Anders’ belly. If he cums—

Hawke slides out but keeps gripping Fenris’ hips.

“Hard,” Fenris begs, squeezing his eyes shut. Hawke grunts and slaps against Fenris’ ass, filling him again. “Please,” Fenris gasps, smelling Anders’ neck and cum.

Fenris’ eyes snap open when Anders touches his cheek. _Sex-induced affection_ jumps to mind at the look in Anders’ eyes.

“Kaffas,” Fenris says. “More,” he begs, staring into Anders’ eyes. “More, please.” He doesn’t think, he _needs_.

Hawke gives him more, harder, while Anders caresses over face, chest, arms. It _burns_ along his tattoos, the perfect counterpoint to the heavy thudding of Hawke filling his ass.

Anders closes his eyes and whispers. Fenris leans closer, jerking forward over Anders with Hawke’s thrusts. The whisper is thin: “Anything, take it, use me, use me, use me,” Anders says. He looks Fenris in the eye. “Please,” he whispers, begging but terrified of what he needs.

“Hawke, please, Anders needs, please,” Fenris says, twisting to tell him. They shuffle awkwardly and try a few bad angles, but once they get everything lined up, Hawke is fucking Fenris into Anders. Now Anders is whispering, “Yes, yes, yes.” His muscles are loose, arms flopped on either side of his head, cock only half-hard, but he’s got that blissful expression again. With his heat squeezing Fenris’ cock and Hawke taking Fenris… he doesn’t last long.

“Hawke! Can I cum! Please, ser! Fuck!”

“Fuck, yes,” Hawke says and Anders _smiles_ , but Fenris whites out, lost to everything but sublime pleasure. He collapses under Hawke pounding into him, going loose in Anders’ arms as Hawke cums, loud and victorious and slick.

They’re a panting stack of limbs, but as his pleasure recedes, Fenris notices the angle of Anders’ hips and legs. He elbows Hawke, and Hawke rolls sideways, shoving Anders’ leg straight and pulling Fenris with him. After shuffling elbows and knees, Fenris is pasted against Anders’ side, supporting his neck with his upper arm, leg thrown over both of Anders’. Hawke is a big spoon nested against Fenris’ back, his arm doubled back to support both Fenris’ head and his own. Hawke’s other hand rests on Fenris’ on Anders’ chest. Fenris squeezes Anders, presses back into Hawke.

Anders blinks, but Hawke says “Shhh, it’s okay. Sleep, love,” so Anders closes his eyes. It feels overwhelmingly _right_ , and Fenris lets it be right.

_It’s just sex._ But the name of his pain might prove how false that is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you thank you to my betas, Rosehip and WhattheButlerSaw! You're fabulous and wonderful!


	6. Morning Aftercare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning aftercare and resolving this argument.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Rosehip and WhattheButlerSaw!

When Anders awakes, they’re in the same tangle but with Fenris’ forehead buried against Anders’ shoulder and Hawke watching Anders.

“Morning, beautiful.” Hawke sounds proud of how late Anders slept and the way Fenris is still snoring, as if he’d caused it. _Didn’t he?_ Anders slept gorgeously, free of darkspawn dreams.

He supposes the pride is justified. “Morning,” Anders says, stretching his muscles taut, and Fenris snorts awake. Hawke smiles and nuzzles through white hair to tug on a pointed ear with his lips, kisses along jaw, neck, and shoulder, and Fenris’ eyes blink open.

“If it’s morning, we should sleep,” Fenris grouses, his voice more graveled than ever. He burrows back into Hawke at tugs at Anders.

“You’re done being mad?” Anders teases, scooting closer. He hardly remembers the cause of yesterday’s anger. Something about lies he’d told.

“Irrelevant,” Fenris says. “You’re comfortable.”

Hawke leaves (Fenris complains) and returns with a waterskin from last night and a rag.

“You cooked, I’ll clean.” Anders takes the rag from Hawke (Fenris complains again), dampens it, and wipes up their sticky mess from the night before. Anders props himself up to sip from the waterskin while Hawke kisses back down Fenris’ shoulder and up his pointed ear. Fenris grumps and flicks his hand like he’s trying to get rid of an annoying insect.

“Breakfast,” Hawke says. “You need food.”

“Sleep,” Fenris says. “We need sleep.” He pulls at Anders again.

Anders corks the waterskin before Fenris can spill it. He’s hungry, so he caresses firmly up Fenris’ leg to rouse him.

“Mmm,” Fenris says. “No, time to sleep.”

Anders continues up Fenris’ side while he swats, objecting that the sun isn’t high enough. Anders reaches his ribs, and Fenris’ swats get frantic. “Hey!”

Anders and Hawke share a glimpse, and Hawke wraps over Fenris. Anders tickles Fenris’ ribs mercilessly. Fenris jerks and spasms, guffawing and pushing away.

“Not fair! Ambush! I’m outnumbered!” Fenris squirms and gets fingers on Hawke’s sides and Hawke thrashes too, grunting. Anders almost feels left out. Hawke meets Fenris’ eye and twitches his chin toward Anders.

“Oh, no, you don’t! This was my idea!” Anders protests, laughing. Too late. Fenris catches Anders while Hawke scrambles to his other side.

Anders dissolves into giggles, incapable of defending himself without resorting to magic once Fenris and Hawke attack. The giggles degrade into _snorts_. Good gravy, he’s being undignified in front of Fenris. _I thought it matters not?_ his inner voice says, amused. Anders ignores him.

Fenris chuckles at Anders’ snorts, and Hawke’s hands still as he watches them laughing together. Anders catches his breath and shoots Fenris a significant glance, and they turn on Hawke, smiling.

“Careful!” he warns. “I might”—

Anders dodges flailing arms and knees as Hawke squirms in weak defense of his many vulnerable points, giving a wheezing, “Eee, hee!” when they hit a good spot. He gets one hand wedged under Fenris’ armpit and the other against Anders’ neck, and they collapse, laughing.

“Stop!” Anders says, pulling his hands back. “Truce! No more! I can’t breathe!” he continues, even though they’ve stopped, heaving breath and grinning.

“Truce,” Fenris agrees, and Hawke nods.

“Come here, both of you,” Hawke says, lifting his arms. He squirms around so he’s flat on his back. Fenris presses flush against him under one arm, sighing, and Anders does the same on Hawke’s other side.

“I love you both so much. You know, don’t you?” Hawke kisses both heads of hair, Anders first.

“Yes, Hawke, we know,” says Fenris.

Anders adds, “We love you, too,” as he nuzzles the wirey fur on Hawke’s chest.

There’s a knock as they’re catching their breath. “Ready for breakfast, Serahs?” Orana calls.

“Not yet!” Hawke says, sitting up carelessly and glancing at their clothes. “Five minutes!”

“Certainly, Messere.” Orana’s footsteps retreat.

Anders can’t stay miffed at Hawke, who’s scrambling to remedy their nakedness.

“You don’t want Orana seeing you without trousers?” Fenris teases.

Hawke says, “Why traumatize them? I like having staff.” He tosses their leggings toward the bed.

Fenris smirks at Hawke’s ass. “Titillate seems more likely,” he says, rolling out of bed and retrieving his pants from the floor. Anders takes a gander at Hawke and agrees, but he’s happy to have him half-naked or less for the staff. As he gets up to pull on his own leggings, Fenris grabs his attention: his lithe grace, the beautiful tattoos. Hawke catches Anders staring.

“So, why did you argue yesterday?” is all Hawke says.

“Perhaps first you should tell us who won,” Fenris says, lacing up his leggings.

“Were these the terms?” Hawke says, pulling a piece of stationary from among his clothing and smiling. “ ‘I will give you the favor I mentioned if Hawke approves’?”

They nod.

“That makes it easy,” Hawke says. “You remember what the favors are?” Anders feels his cheeks heat as he laces his own trousers. _Shit, what if I lost?_ Hawke laughs. “I guess you do.” Fenris is not looking at either of them, most of his face veiled from Anders by his hair. Anders stares distractedly at the line of his jaw while Hawke continues: “You’ve both got my approval, so you both get the favors.”

“Hawke, it’s not that simple! It’s who’s the better pet!” Anders says.

Hawke laughs again. “That’s what you argued over?”

“Ah, yes?” Anders says, scratching his head.

“No,” Fenris says. He’s frowning now.

“Okay…” Hawke says. Orana arrives with the huge tray. Anders analyzes her movements: she tilts the tray with a swoop through the doorway, but nothing slides.

“Orana,” Fenris says. She sets the tray on the bed.

“Always good to see you, Serahs,” she says, curtseying Tevinter style and leaving without addressing Hawke.

“Well, that’s progress, at least,” Hawke mutters. He’s always trying to get her to act less like a slave.

Anders hops on the bed again, tucking his long, loose hair behind his ears. He picks up the olive dish and looks under it. No resin or gum. _Maybe she’s a mage._

“What are you doing?” Fenris asks.

“Nothing,” Anders says, setting the dish back on the tray and popping an olive in his mouth. The intense, briny bitterness is stronger than he remembered, supported by a richness of flavor. Anders closes his eyes to experience the fading aftertaste without distraction. The bed rocks as his boyfriends clamber onto the bed, and Anders opens his eyes and catches an ironic smile on Fenris’ face.

Hawke misses it as he slathers cream and honey on his bread. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten our conversation,” he says. Fenris’ expression shatters into a flavor of dislike Anders is more familiar with. When they’re fucking around with Hawke, they pretend to be other people, but it ends and their rivalry bubbles up again.

“You are each excellent but very fucking different ‘pets.’ So, yes, you both win. Sexual favors for everybody! Not at my house, but I want details afterward. Anders, why are you sulking?”

“I’m not”—but Anders is. He huffs. “Fine. You’re not giving Fenris a collar, are you?”

Hawke looks horrified, and Fenris recoils. “Void, no!” they say in unison, too loud.

“Whoa!” Anders sits back. Fenris mentioned collars months ago. _The magisters do not hesitate to collar their own kind._ Anders had thought it was metaphorical.

“Anders, your collar means something different for us, but… Fenris will never have one, no matter how much he _plays_ my pet. For you and me, it’s a symbol of our trust in each other. For him, it would break that trust. I thought I made that clear? He’s my boyfriend, _you’re_ my pet.”

Anders is relieved, but he says, “I didn’t think that he…” _Magister Danarius._ “That Fenris…” _wore a collar when he was a slave._

Fenris isn’t angry, but he says in a flat voice, “It was a long time ago.” He’s looking at the sheets. Hawke’s smile is so sad, Anders wonders how to repair the damage.

“Fenris, you don’t get to dodge the question,” Hawke says. “What do you think your argument was about?” _That’s a sudden subject change!_

“I—” Fenris glances at Anders, and Anders remembers the life returning to Karl’s ice-blue eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Hawke,” Anders says, shrugging and collecting a pastry from the tray, “it’s us. When don’t we argue? It’s what we do.”

Fenris shoots him a look. _What now?_ Anders thinks.

“Hmm,” Hawke says, chewing thoughtfully. “Nope! Start at the start. Where did you see each other?”

“Fenris came to my clinic,” Anders says and bites into his flakey pastry.

“What? Why?” Hawke says, pausing his eating.

“I had an arrow in my chest,” Fenris blurts.

Hawke tilts his head. “Why an arrow?”

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” Fenris says.

“You said there were five guys?” Anders says. “I hope they got what they deserved, attacking you.” _A sound beating or worse,_ Justice mutters. _Is that apricot?_

 _Justice, you’re sweet on Fenris now?_ Anders teases.

_A sound beating is a natural consequence of attacking the lyrium elf._

“Fenris! Why didn’t you use elfroot?” Hawke chomps into his bread.

“That’s what I said,” Anders mutters, finishing his pastry.

“I did. I ran out,” Fenris says, reaching for the peeled cucumber slices.

“Aw, Fenny,” Hawke says in a sing-song voice, “you’re so cute when you pout.”

“I’m not pouting,” Fenny lies.

Hawke looks at Anders with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re right,” Anders admits, raising a knife-with-jam and a crusty slice of bread, “the pout’s cute.” Anders catches the apricot jam with the bread as it drips off the knife.

“Ha!” Hawke says, kicking the tray. The dishes rattle.

“And don’t call me Fenny!” Fenris grumps.

“Anyway, you were out of elfroot and went to Anders’ clinic. So he healed you?” Hawke grabs a peach, even though he’s not done with his bread yet.

“Eventually,” Fenris admits.

Anders offers his professional opinion: “One of my more obstinate patients.” He takes a big bite of the bread and jam.

“Allow me to clarify. Anders, you were reluctant to heal Fenris, he grumped at you, you grumped back, you questioned each other’s abilities as my pets and ended up here?” Hawke might laugh again. Anders glances at Fenris.

“Yeah,” Anders admits, “pretty much.”

“So, Fenris, would you be surprised if Anders appeared at your mansion?”

“I… I’d be considerably happier than Anders seemed.”

“You were angry because I wasn’t _happy to see you?!_ ” Anders says. “Fenris, I’m _never_ happy when a patient shows up covered in blood, especially a patient I”—Anders stops cold. _What are we to each other?_ —“fight assholes with and,” he waves his bread, “co-boyfriend with.”

“Telling me to ‘use elfroot’ was concern?” Fenris leans into the phrase, more salty and bitter than the olives.

“It’s faster,” Anders says. “What if someone attacks you traveling?”

“You tell Hawke to use your healing, to _save_ on elfroot.”

“By bringing me!”

Fenris’ jaw drops. “I can’t take you!” he says. “You could get hurt!”

“Fenris,” Anders says while Hawke tries very hard not to laugh. “You _came_ to the clinic with an _arrow_ between your ribs.”

Fenris huffs and looks away, refusing to see he’s wrong, _again._

“You stubborn”—

“Anders,” Hawke says, “you’re misreading him. He’s hiding that he’s pleased.”

“Shut it, you,” Fenris growls. _But when is he not growling?_

Anders blinks. When _is_ he not growling? Considering his _voice_ , his tone is more playful than usual. When he peeks around the fringe of white—briefly! There!—his eyes are sparkling. His mouth is a solid line, but the corners keep twitching up. For Fenris, he’s positively chuffed.

“You take that back!” Hawke says, mock-outraged. Hawke can tell when Fenris is playing and when he’s upset. Anders is tempted to panic that they’ll leave him, but Anders knows where that road goes. Hawke _loves_ him, and Fenris refuses to endanger Hawke’s happiness.

So he walks it through: _Yesterday at the clinic, it wasn’t our old rivalry. Fenris thought I was sending him away, and it upset him._ Something raw in Anders’ chest scrapes painfully. _Fenris. Of all people, Fenris wants to spend time with me. Hawke, sure. Varric, any time. But Fenris? I thought friendship was impossible, even when this strange partnership started._

A peach pit flies by Anders’ head, and he focuses on his surroundings again. _Andraste’s frilly bloomers, where did I go?_ He has a moment of panic that Justice has taken over, but no. Fenris has a piece of bread stuck to his hair with clotted cream and honey. A peeled cucumber sticks in Hawke’s chest fur, then falls away.

“I Fade off for a minute, and you two start a food fight?!” Anders says, and Hawke and Fenris throw food at Anders. Fenris is playing like an apprentice but smiling coyly, not grinning.

“Waste of food! Stop! Truce! Food abuse! I—I’m sorry!”

They stop. “What’d you say?” Hawke asks.

“It’s wasteful to weaponize food,” Anders says. _Children starve in the streets, throw it at them if you must…_

“No,” Hawke says, “after that.”

“I… said I’m sorry?” Why is it a question? Why is Hawke boggled? Anders tries to remember the last time he apologized. _People who waste food should give to those in need instead…_ Anders shoots an image of Hawke’s last donation to the clinic at Justice.

“Sorry for what?” Fenris asks cautiously. It would be easy to interpret his frown as hatred, but no. He’s being careful with his hope.

“For you. No, shit, not what I meant.” _Perhaps we should—wait, what_ do _you mean?_ Justice is distracted from his righteous rant, and Anders would rather he continue. “For not realizing what… you were doing. For not letting you use a stupid-ass excuse to visit me.”

“Stupid-ass?” Fenris’ black brow arches.

Hawke stage-whispers, “He’s saying your excuse was unintelligent.”

“I know what it means, stupid-ass,” Fenris says. Hawke flings another morsel of sticky bread at him. “I apologize, too.”

Anders has heard ‘I apologize’ too often to take it at face value, until he sees Hawke’s happy smile and reminds himself that Fenris is always too formal. “What exactly for?” Anders says, to check.

“For doubting your word,” Fenris says and glances at Hawke. “It was none of my business.”

“Okay,” Anders says. He can let this go for now. “D-don’t kill yourself to visit. Just come by. Although… I rarely get a break.”

“I noticed,” Fenris says.

“You got injured to make me see you?” Anders smirks.

“N-no! Not… something I thought out, anyway.”

“Anders, don’t you need new bandages cut and rolled?” Hawke asks.

“Hawke, that’s so boring…”

“I have a proposal,” Fenris says, smiling coyly again. _The lyrium elf is grinning,_ Justice corrects. “I’ll help make bandages if you join me to find trouble.”

Anders’ chest expands pleasantly, its own kind of healing. “Deal,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a draft somewhere involving the sexual favors Anders & Fenris put up for this wager. *cackles gently*  
> Hey, have a bonus afterward, a day early!


	7. Fifteen Seconds at the Hanged Man.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A size comparison is thwarted. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m well beyond 12 years old, but sometimes my sense of humor hasn’t caught up. Fortunately, neither has Isabela’s. Enjoy!

Hawke gets nervous when Isabela’s eyebrows waggle. And rightly so. “Whose cock’s bigger?” she says.

_Shit. Way to start an argument, Isabela, likely about whether length or girth is more important._

Instead, Anders and Fenris glance at each other and chorus: “Hawke’s.” Hawke feels his cheeks heat.

“Not my question, but good to know,” Isabela says.

Hawke coughs. “That information is _never_ going to be useful to you.”

Isabela shrugs. “You’ve forgotten my friend-fiction.” She grins, raising her mug then drinking a deep toast. Hawke prays she never ‘misplaces’ her drafts or—Maker forbid!—publishes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah… sorry, Hawke. If it’s any consolation, we still love you.   
> I’ve posted the original argument on Tumblr @starlanellfic! Anybody need/want it here?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and for so many lovely Comments and Kudos! It might not seem like much, but it fuels my writing. This work spawned a few drafts…


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